


Osculate

by mountebank



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 02:06:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16358612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mountebank/pseuds/mountebank
Summary: They say goodbye in the locker room in Prague.All the while, Roger’s tiny inward, ongoing crisis reaches a kind of crescendo. He thinks it started on Friday, or maybe at Rafa’s academy last year, or maybe even in 2004. He’s not even really sure what exactly his crisis is about, or how to put words to it. Not that he's meaning to sound so dramatic. Anyway, it’s manageable. He’s doing great.His fingers go from Rafa’s shoulder to his elbow and he gives his arm a squeeze.He wants to say: “I’ll miss you,” and “A lot,” and “Too much.” But, obviously, he doesn’t want to embarrass himself.





	Osculate

**Author's Note:**

> someone tweeted something like 'i wonder if they've kissed just once' in reply to a gif of them at lc and i wrote this

**osculate**

/ˈɒskjʊleɪt/

 

_verb_

1\. MATHEMATICS

(of a curve or surface) touch (another curve or surface) so as to have a common tangent at the point of contact.

"the plots have been drawn using osculating orbital elements"

 

2\. FORMAL•HUMOROUS

kiss.

 

-

 

They say goodbye in the locker room in Prague. 

All the while, Roger’s tiny inward, ongoing crisis reaches a kind of crescendo. He thinks it started on Friday, or maybe at Rafa’s academy last year, or maybe even in 2004. He’s not even really sure what exactly his crisis is about, or how to put words to it. Not that he's meaning to sound so dramatic. Anyway, it’s manageable. He’s doing _great._

His fingers go from Rafa’s shoulder to his elbow and he gives his arm a squeeze.

He wants to say: “I’ll miss you,” and “A lot,” and “Too much.” But, obviously, he doesn’t want to embarrass himself. 

Instead Roger says, “Text me when you land.” And, honestly he aims for casual, but his traitorous voice cracks a little, so he doesn’t quite escape the whole death by embarrassment thing. He has a go at rebooting his brain, because he feels like… well fuck, Rafa _happened_ to him this weekend or something. 

Rafa pats his knee in return. Rafael Nadal: humble guy, lovely smile, good relationship. His fingers don’t linger at all and Roger feels disappointed. Disappointed? Fuck.

“Sure.” His smile is so, so lovely. Roger is fairly sure Rafa’s smile has always been that lovely but he’s never consciously catalogued it like this before. “Enjoy your break, Rog.”

And so, Roger savours the moment. The way Rafa pronounces his name, the rolled _R,_ the soft _G._ His fucking smile. 

He clears his throat.

“I’ll see you in Shanghai?” 

“Yeah.”

It seems to take a lot of energy to really say goodbye and leave. Roger gives himself the time in the hotel corridor on the way to his room to think about Rafa. He accidentally continues to think about Rafa while kicking off his shoes, while getting ready for bed, and also maybe a little before eventually falling asleep.

 

-

 

In Switzerland the next week, Roger relaxes. Or rather, he wastes a lot of time on his phone and laptop. Nobody’s perfect.  

He looks up flights to Mallorca. He makes multiple mental notes to look up hotels in Palma. He uses google street view a lot and virtually walks the streets of Manacor. Just looking at the sunbaked stone and tranquil sky in photos is enough to make Roger feel — _warmer, closer_ — calmer. He hopes Rafa’s relaxing also. He imagines Rafa onthe beaches, on his boat, tanning and floating on gorgeous Mediterranean water, pink swim trunks, the black and white striped sun glasses. It’s a good look.

Roger takes in the quiet, tries to absorb it through some sort of osmosis. He googles osmosis. Yeah, perfect, his skin is a semipermeable membrane, equalising the concentrations of quiet inside and out. He likes thinking like that, the quiet as a solid tangible _thing._ Specifically, the quiet has to be a soluble molecule, according to google, of course. He spends probably too much time online. When he laughs and the sound fills the room, he thinks the osmosis thing isn’t working out too bad.

He video calls his family every morning and evening. He sets up a Team Europe group chat.

Rafa doesn’t reply to the group chat very often he notices but it’s okay, because he’s pretty good about getting back to Roger. He texts Rafa a lot. Too much.

 

-

 

They attempt a video call. It’s incredibly frustrating, the picture is blurry, the sound is delayed, and Roger is sure it’s not his end at fault because he was _just_ talking to Mirka and the kids and it was _fine_ then. Through about five pixels he can see Rafa roll his eyes and then the screen goes black.

His phone chimes right away.

_not working_

Roger types: 

_Ahh and I just wanted to see your pretty face._  

After a minute he adds a row of crying laughing emojis. To show he’s joking, right. After another minute he starts to think maybe he didn’t quite sell the cool, casual tone he was going for. He starts to backtrack, get back on the usual territory: _how was your day—_ Yeah, good, safe. The old beaten path. But then he receives a photo from Rafa.

It’s a selfie. It’s _wonderful._ The lighting is yellow and dim, and so Rafa’s features are mostly in waxy shadow; his eyes look — _lovely, …tender? —_ soft. 

_happy?_ Rafa adds underneath. 

Roger can see the shapes of a headboard and pillows behind Rafa’s head and instinctively settles back in his own bed. He takes his own selfie and sends it, maybe against better judgement. He still hopes his smile looks just as tender. 

_very smart taking photo in the dark no? make us look like we have more hairs :-)_  

They text back and forth for a long while after, at least until Roger’s eyes get heavy. He sinks all the way into bed with the covers up to his chin, half his face in his pillow and one eye on the screen. When they said goodnight to each other Roger scrolls back up to Rafa’s photo and blinks his other eye, the one he had pressed into his pillow, now photo sensitive and blotchy, into focus. He locks his phone and puts it on his bedside table for the morning, and turns off his lamp.

He dreams he’s on a beach alone.

It’s a vivid kind of dream. The kind where he’s aware of the sun heating his skin, the grit of sand on his body. He can’t find his bottle of sun cream in his bag, he’s was sweating, and the sea is so far away he’s not sure he can hear the waves properly. Then he feels a wet coolness on his shoulder and turns. It’s Rafa holding the sun cream and smiling, smiling, smiling. Rafa pushes him down onto a soft towel and smooths the cream over the bridge of his nose and gently, feather light over his cheeks. Then he focusses his attention on Roger’s burning shoulders, across his collar bones, down his chest, down his stomach, his gaze form a question. Roger pushes himself up onto his elbows to lock eyes and nods his please. His fingers are caught in Rafa’s hair, his ears full with the crashing of the waves and the sound rumbled in his chest—

When Roger wakes up he acknowledges, his rival, his friend, Rafa, in a way he thinks he’s been avoiding for weeks — years? He stops thinking. He makes the decision less with his head and more with his hand around his cock.

He’s attracted to him. No problem, Rafa _is_ attractive. 

And so, Roger thinks about Rafa — carefully, deliberately — and comes in his own fist in about half a minute.

 

-

 

Later he unlocks his phone and it’s still open on Rafa’s photo. He goes through the process of deleting the photo, but hesitates just as he’s about to confirm. So he decides to leave it on his phone.

 

-

 

Sex hasn’t come up before. Come _out_ , ha.

Something has felt different since Laver Cup, and right now Roger’s just feeling honest, _confessional._

He looks at his message screen for a long time. He writes several longwinded messages and deletes them all.

He decides to go for the blunt, direct approach. Get to fucking the point, you know. He types:

_I’m bisexual._

Then he closes his messages, swipes away his open apps, and puts his phone on airplane mode. He gets on the plane to Japan. He hopes Rafa gets it. 

 

-

 

It’s a beautiful evening in Tokyo. Rafa hasn’t replied.

But then the typing indicator springs to life and Roger feels like he’s staring at his own heartbeat. It goes on for a very long time. He really can’t imagine what Rafa could be typing.

After maybe five minutes — not that long of a time really, but in this modern day and age, _Jesus —_ his phone vibrates in his hand and he locks it on instinct through some sort of a defence mechanism. 

Roger can’t look. He’s not sure what he’s expecting. Lot’s of questions probably. A long essay. Maybe Rafa doesn’t even know what bisexuality is, maybe he could send those articles he read online a few years ago that helped him figure it out in the first place.

He opens the message.

He blinks once, twice. For the number of words.

_I’m gay :-)_

He blinks again for the fucking emoji. Right. Right well—

Then another message comes through:

_you are in tokyo now? i hope you are having fun_  

Roger turns off his phone for the night.

 

-

 

He thinks maybe his Rafa-related crisis is getting worse.

 

-

 

Roger massively overthinks replying to Rafa and ends up with a new crisis. He’s never thought of his sexuality as a big deal. Men and women, you know, why limit himself. And he’s _married._ It just never came up before because, because… He’s married. But, Rafa coming out to him? Feels like a big fucking deal. He’s panicking about unintentionally pressuring Rafa into revealing that about himself. He should reply to Rafa, clear some things up. After careful deliberation, and with precise, deliberate movements, Roger puts his phone away and decides to answer some emails he’s been avoiding.  

An hour later, he replies to Rafa’s second message only. And so, their texting resumes it’s usual, friendly, buddy fucking buddy schedule for a while.

But he can’t let it go. He calls Rafa two days later.

“Roger? Hello?” Rafa’s voice sounds sleep hoarse and hazy.

Roger would kill for a phone with a long curly wire right now. He needs something to focus on and a wire to wind round his finger, cutting off his circulation by the second would be fantastic.

“Hey, Rafa. I’m sorry, did I wake you?” Beijing’s only an hour behind so it’s not late, but Roger still feels a fool.

“No, no, no. I was awake.” Roger can heard someone laughing in the background. “I am going to dinner soon, so I cannot speak too long.”

“No problem. No problem.” Roger’s not sure what he’s doing but his mouth carries on without him. “I guess I just wanted to say, you know… about the gay thing. Uh, I mean. It’s cool with me. I’m glad— No. No! I mean, I’m sorry you told me.” He winces.

_Jesus Christ._ He quickly concocts a plan to hang up and deny everything, convince Rafa later that this was all just a dream. He’d have to erase the call log. Maybe he could fly over to Beijing now and delete the call from his phone? No, ridiculous, there’s not enough time. Maybe he could _hire_ someone else to hack into Rafa’s phone. Or maybe— 

“Rafa, I, what I’m trying to say is, I’m married.” He’s aware he’s still not making sense, but Roger’s determined to get this right. He’s going to make his point.

“You are married.” Rafa repeats slowly, as if unsure of where Roger’s going, which is… fair enough really.

“So, right, so— it’s different for me, you know? I get to be myself to people important in my life and the public is none the wiser. I’m glad I told you I’m bisexual, but I hate feeling like I unintentionally pressured you to do the same. I know being gay in this profession, in this sport must be different.”

He thinks that’s right. Rafa answers first with a long sigh does and his heart rate goes up a couple of notches.

“Roger, thank you? I think. This, being gay is fine for me, I am fine. No need to worry. Is the same for me too, no? Important people, my family, friends, they all know and accept.” 

Roger let’s out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Good? That’s good, right? He can put this silly thing to rest. Maybe this is what he needed to sort out his Rafa crisis. A good old fashioned heart to heart, _honesty_ , bonding over shared experiences, etc. Perfect. 

“Okay. Okay, good, I’m glad.” He really is glad. “I just get it too. Being on this tour can be tough.” 

“Hmm,” Roger intuitively smiles at the playful tone in Rafa’s voice. This he knows, this he can deal with. “Is not so bad. There are lots more not too straight men than you think.”

“Oh, really? Who?” He means to sound equally casual but his throat gets a little tight.

“Roger, of course I cannot say.” Rafa’s still teasing. “I don’t want to — unintentionally — tell someone else’s secret.” 

Roger likes the way Rafa says ‘unintentionally’. And that should be that, move on now before he starts spiralling again. Roger doesn’t know any other way, he presses further.

“So. Are you talking about men you’ve been with.” Been with. Christ. “On the tour?” 

There’s silence for a moment. Maybe Rafa’s considering hanging up on him, Roger thinks it would be better because he can’t let this go.

“Yes. I, yeah. It doesn’t matter.” 

“Who? Who else?”

“I already say. Is not my decision to tell you.”

“Spanish guys?” Unbidden his mind cycles through various player and stops for a moment on Feliciano Lopez. Would that make sense? Feli and Rafa travelling together, and in locker rooms, hotel rooms… 

He hears someone calling for Rafa to hurry through the phone. There’s the muffled sound of Rafa pressing his palm to the phone but his voice is still plain enough to make out the answer. 

“ _Coming, Grigor_.”  

_Grigor?_ Then Rafa’s voice is clear in Roger’s ear again and full of apology.

“I have to go to dinner now, sorry. We speak again another time?”

“Grigor? As in Dimitrov? You’re going to dinner with Dimitrov?”

“Yeah. I am late already—”

“And are you? Are the two of you—“ 

Rafa cuts him off and, for the first time in a long while, his tone is short and surly.  

“Bye, Roger.” He hangs up.

 

-

 

Later, well, Roger fucking seethes.

He sits on the end of his end of his hotel bed with the duvet over his head, hunched over his laptop. Then he thinks the position is probably not good for his back so he throws the duvet back over the bed and stretches out on his front.

Fucking Dimitrov?

He pounds “Nadal Dimitrov” into the search bar. Google helpfully supplies the time of their quarter-final the next day. Roger scoffs. Stupid to go to dinner just before an important match. Sure, he’d done that with Stan before, and Andy once, and Rafa a few times, but that wasn’t the point. They were, they— it was just different.

Grigor must have been in the room the whole fucking time. Roger was sure now he’d heard his voice when Rafa answered the phone. And Rafa had just talked openly about his sexuality with Grigor right there. So that could mean, that must mean…—

Roger clicks on images. 

Rafa and Grigor at the player party. Arm in arm. Smiling. Arms around waists. Laughing.

Roger snaps the laptop shut. Then he pulls the duvet over the stupid thing as well.

He decides to shower and turn in early. So what if Rafa’s with Dimitrov? He doesn’t care. Rafa can do whatever he wants, _whoever_ he wants. Fucking whatever. He turns the shower up very hot.

 

-

 

The shower helps. He lounges in his hotel bathrobe for a while trying to be zen. He opens up his laptop and closes all the ‘Nadal Dimitrov’ tabs quickly, and as they go his mind slows and quiets. He googles zen. He looks at pictures of the Swiss alps and shivers, imagining the altitude and crisp air, dipping his hands straight into snow, or icy water. He would love to be a person who can let things go easily, but he thinks he needs that kind of sudden jolt to clear his mind.

He types in ‘Federer Nadal’ and clicks on images. And, something, something hot and knotted finally unravels and loosens in his chest. There’s no sudden and striking revelation. He just feels… a warm pleasantness. A good ache, nostalgia. 

He writes Rafa a long apology text. He ends honestly.

_I’m sorry for acting rude and jealous. Truthfully, I care for you a lot, more than a friend even._  

But he can’t send it. 

_Rafa, I was a dick on the phone. I’m so sorry. Good luck tomorrow in Beijing. You’ll get the trophy, I’m sure. See you in Shanghai. x_

 

_-_

 

In Shanghai, Team Europe go to dinner. 

Roger is the first to get there. He feels unspeakably nervous. Unsurprisingly, Rafa is the last to arrive. He looks unspeakably good. 

All in all, it’s a wonderful time. The food is great, Roger’s single glass of wine is especially excellent _,_ and he enjoys himself. He feels a real affection for everyone on his team, but most of all he’s still so grateful for how the venture turned out. He indulgently congratulates himself again for the whole rival turned teammate thing. He smiles at Rafa a lot without realising and Rafa smiles back. Rafa always looks away first, Roger doesn’t care. He works at taking it all in. Osmosis again, or whatever. 

Besides, the novelty of being at a social event with Bjorn fucking Borg never wears off.

At the close of the evening, everyone starts to leave and eventually it’s just Roger and Rafa. Roger thinks this would be a good a moment as any to make another confession. He could do it, the restaurant setting is nice, maybe romantic. Not that the setting has to be romantic, he just wants to get his feelings out in the open, and he’s not expecting anything to be _reciprocated._ Well, maybe, maybe… His anxiety is back and working overtime again, but maybe he could take Rafa’s hand, look into his eyes, make it fucking romantic —

“Roger?”

“Huh? Yeah, sorry?” 

“I was saying, we should probably get to our hotels.”

“Um, yes, yes. You’re right.”

Roger takes the out.

 

-

 

They’re staying in the same hotel, so it makes sense to take a cab back together. Roger feels wide awake despite how pleasantly warm and comfortable he is in the half light of the back of the car.

“You are quiet.” Rafa’s voice is notably soft. “You are not usually this quiet. Is very strange.” 

Roger looks up and meet Rafa’s eyes. “No? I suppose not.”

“What are you thinking about?” Rafa’s smile is small, but it’s there. He doesn’t know what he could unleash. Roger doesn’t even know where to begin.

He turns to look out of the window, his eyes tracking the moving street lamps. “You. I guess.” His eyes flick to the front of the car. “You know, especially since you told me about…other men—”

Rafa cuts him off, probably for the best, because Roger can already tell he’s about to talk himself into a corner.

“Me, …with other men?” Rafa begins carefully. “But you have too, no? Been with other men?”

“I —“ Roger wasn’t expecting that. “Yes, yes, when I was younger but, — Wait.” 

Oh, _oh._ Rafa probably thinks he’s being _weird._

“I’m not, you know, being _homophobic._ I just. Can’t believe I hadn’t noticed before.”

Rafa snorts and sits back in his seat.

“Is easy to see you are not straight, I think.”

“What?” Roger shoves his shoulder with his own. “What do you mean?” He’s leaning closer to Rafa now.

Rafa hums. “You know. You can just tell.”

“No, fucking way—” 

“Yes fucking, I already notice-ed.” 

Roger manages a mock glare for a good two full seconds before he breaks so he just shoves Rafa again to hide his smile.

Something comes to Roger then, and he turns to face Rafa and opens his mouth to ask but stops himself. Rafa rolls his eyes.

“What?”

“No, it doesn’t matter.”

“Go on, Rog. Ask.”

“Meri?” He fidgets and can’t look Rafa in the eye.

“Yeah.” Roger can see Rafa nodding in the corner of his eye, like he’s confirming to himself Roger’s question was as predicted. “I love her of course, we are good friends. Best friends.” 

“Oh, yes. Yes, that’s good, I’m glad.” He winces. He’s back to being weird, but he is being genuine, he means what he says.

“Roger.” Roger looks up but this time it’s Rafa who won’t meet his eye. “The guys I am with usually. Is nothing serious. Just fun.”

“Just fun.” He echoes. 

“Yeah. I will find the serious relationship after tennis, I hope. You are very lucky, meeting Mirka so young.” Rafa does look him in the eye and smile then, but Roger can only manage a grimace.

“Yes. I understand.” 

They arrive at the hotel.

 

-

 

In the hotel lift, Rafa pulls out his key card with 502 embossed onto it and hits button 5 for the fifth floor. Roger hits 8.

And so, the ride up is relatively nondescript. Except.

Except when they say goodbye, when the lift opens on the fifth floor, there’s a moment. A charged moment like in romance novels, or films, or tv, Roger later recalls indulgently. They say goodbye and the lift doors start to slide shut, but then Rafa puts a hand on the doors to stop them. And Roger’s awareness seems to pool into his heart, the beat of it, the rush of his blood when he looks into Rafa’s eyes, exactly like how romance is supposed to work in stories.

“You are my good friend, Roger. I care for you.” Rafa says in a rush, his cheeks pink. He looks down at his shoes, “a lot.”

“Too much?” 

“What?”

“No. Nothing. I mean, it's nice to hear you call me your friend.”

They smile at each other. Roger’s face burns.

“Do you—

“I think—

They cut each other off.

“You go.” Roger urges. “It’s not important.”

“No, no, me as well. It doesn’t matter. I think I should sleep.” 

Roger can feel restless energy pulse in his wrist, in his neck, in his temple.

“Sorry,” Rafa says and takes his hand off the door. “Goodnight.”

The doors slide the rest of the way shut and the lift takes Roger up to his own floor, announcing their arrival with a pleasant chime, which echoes in Roger’s mind down the corridor, follows him as he slides his key card into the door, and through into his room. The room door shuts behind him, and ushers a curious sort of quiet in. 

He can’t stand it. His ears feel like they’re vibrating, like he can hear a mosquito whine in his ear, or radio static, or the roaring moment a wave peaks and comes crashing down over and over again. 

He paces back and forth in an effort to clear his mind. He lies down on the couch, then face down on the bed still in his clothes with his feet in the air so his shoes don’t touch the covers. Then he paces again.

 

-

 

He stands in front of room 02 on the fifth floor. He knocks.

Rafa answers in a bathrobe, his face and chest pink from shower heat. His left eyebrow shoots up into his wet hair.

“Roger?”

“Rafa.” He sounds desperate, feels desperate, probably looks it too. “I want to ask you something. And you can say no and I won’t be offended.”

Rafa’s confusion settles into a frown. “Okay.”

Roger fidgets and fists his hands, the pressure of his finger nails against his slightly sweaty palms grounds him. He tamps down the urge to bring his right hand to his lips and blow across his finger tips to further settle himself. He doesn’t know what to say, but he knows what he wants. He’s always known what he wants.

“Can I kiss you?” He says it all in a rush. “Of course, you can say no. I just wanted to tell you, I wanted you to know, I’ve been thinking of you recently. Since Laver Cup, maybe before I don’t know. And I would like to kiss you if you’ll let me. Just once.”

A beat. 

“Just once?”

Rafa pulls him into the room and the door swings shut behind him. Officially together in the same room again, the space transforms, the mood shifts, he doesn’t know what into yet.

“Okay?” It’s a question, he’s neither agreeing nor disagreeing with Roger’s proposition. “Why?” 

Roger’s not sure how to answer. His mind is stuck on the thought. He imagines it, leaning in, feeling the press of Rafa’s lips. He looks down at his shoes, at Rafa again. _God_ ,  what, _what._ Roger’s breathless and doubled over with laughter. _What the fuck._ What the fuck is he doing?

“Sorry, sorry, Rafa.”Roger gasps in between ridiculous giggles.

Rafa steps back. “So, this is… just a joke?” His face is carefully expressionless.

Roger takes him by both shoulders and wills himself to be serious again. “No, no, no. I definitely, really want to kiss you. Try something once, you know?” 

Rafa is still frowning and his voice is flat, “Roger, I don’t understand.” 

“I can’t stop thinking about you and I don’t want to ask you for something we can’t give each other. I… I don’t want to be one of your hook ups, you know.” Roger aims for reassuring, joking. “So. One kiss only?” He smiles.

Roger seems to have found the right words to get Rafa on board and he mentally pats himself on the back at the new glint in Rafa’s eye. The corners of Rafa’s lips lift a little, but he’s not quite smiling back.

“Okay, no… ‘hook up’.” He mimics. Rafa’s tone is strange, but Roger doesn’t have time to decipher it, because Rafa’s backing him up against the wall. “One kiss only.”

Roger’s breathless again, not in the giggly way, when his back hits the wall. Rafa’s hands come up to frame his face, but not to touch, and their faces — their lips — are very close. This is it, intimate space, Roger forgets to breathe. He skims his hands down Rafa’s sides, but the thick, heavy material of his towelling robe gives nothing away. Not that he’s unaware of the shape of Rafa’s body, as he has in fact, been _extremely_ aware for a long time. He lets his hands settle lightly at Rafa’s waist, and considers pulling his body in closer, but decides against it. Then he brings one hand to the back of Rafa’s head instead, and cards through the shorter hair there slightly. He brings his other hand to rest gently on the side of Rafa’s face, but really it’s about control, because if this is his only kiss he wants to command the pace, the rhythm of it. They both take a breath and then he pulls Rafa in.

Roger likes kissing. He wants to start sweet and chaste, and get a feel from there, but in no time Rafa’s deepening the kiss, licking into his mouth sooner than Roger was ready for. It’s good, he’s really fucking good at it. Not that Roger’s surprised, you know, with all of Rafa’s fucking _experience._ Roger likes touching too, but he’s not meaning for it to be about that right now. Only, without realising he’s got a firm grip on Rafa’s waist, and he pulls him in tight. Rafa’s leg slips out of his robe. Their kiss gets messy and open mouthed as they try to take breaths without breaking away from each other. Their thighs slot together.

Rafa pulls away, and Roger can’t help it, he chases Rafa’s mouth and Rafa moves back with him, his lips land on the corner of Rafa’s mouth.

“One kiss only, no?” Rafa’s voice is soft and slightly hoarse.

They’re still pressed together, chests and hips and thighs. Roger’s head is half in this moment and half floating away somewhere else. Maybe the Swiss alps. Or Manacor. Anyway, Roger doesn’t want to think right now, he just wants to kiss Rafa. He hides his face in Rafa’s neck for a second just to breathe. 

“Yes, but I’ve never kissed you just once here.” He kisses the point where Rafa’s jaw meets his throat and feels Rafa swallow. “Or here.” He trails chaste kisses along Rafa’s jawline and then kisses him wetly in the centre of his chin. Rafa snorts and laughs but pushes Roger back to break away from him, and his eyes regain a guarded expression.

“What are we doing, Roger?” He’s still sort of smiling at least.

Roger stays back against the wall, hands loose by his sides. Honestly, he doesn’t fucking know.

“Just kissing.” He says, lightly, jovially, hoping he’s successfully hiding the feeling that he might die if he doesn’t get to touch Rafa again right now. “There are lots of places I’ve never kissed on you.” _Smooth._  

It’s a shit joke, but Rafa laughs.

“Just kissing?” His cheeks dimple.

Rafa pulls Roger to him and walks backwards until the backs of his knees hit the bed. Roger’s mind is well and truly away. 

“No hooking up?” Rafa asks again, and this time his tone is lightly mocking, daring Roger to make a move. Roger’s a professional athlete, and he doesn’t know how to not accept a challenge.

“Just kissing. No hooking up.” Roger repeats like a mantra. It’s not a sex thing exactly. He’s not another bedpost notch for Rafa. He runs the collar of Rafa’s bathrobe between the knuckles of his index and middle finger. Rafa gives him the signature eyebrow. “Take this off.” 

Rafa takes it off. Roger doesn’t look, doesn’t look, doesn’t look. “Lie down.” Rafa lies down. 

Rafa spread out on white hotel sheets is a better sight in reality than anything Roger’s imagination could collage together through locker room memories. He can’t help it, he looks at him, he fucking _admires_. Rafa watches him with dark eyes, and heat prickles along Roger’s hairline and rolls through his body.

“You gonna kiss me, Rogelio?” It’s a line, and neither of them can keep a straight face, but it’s true. Roger really fucking wants to kiss him.

He toes off his shoes and socks, he undresses quickly, but leaves his underwear on. Rafa laughs at him as he folds and piles up his clothes and puts the whole lot under the bed. He mock glares at him. 

“I’m not a messy casual fuck who leaves belongings behind.” He says in the snottiest voice he can manage. He slots into the spread of Rafa’s legs and pulls Rafa’s thighs up to bracket his own body. 

“I thought we’re not gonna fuck.” Rafa’s propped up on his elbows, chin defiant, that challenging light still in his eyes. 

They could. Roger could push Rafa’s legs back further, lube himself up, and slide right in. They’re both already half hard, Roger can feel Rafa through the last layer of his underwear between them. He imagines Rafa has condoms in his suitcase or maybe just in the bedside drawer, for easy access, for whoever he shares his bed with. An acidic mix of jealousy and want swirl hotly inside him. 

“No, we’re not gonna fuck.” Roger confirms and slides back down Rafa’s body. “I’m just gonna kiss you.”

And he does. 

Roger starts at the bottom of the bed, at Rafa’s feet, and presses light kisses to his left big toe, the ball of his foot, the arch, his heel. Rafa squirms, ticklish. Roger feels somewhat foolish, but more importantly, he feels in control and that’s what he wants right now. He kisses the bone of Rafa’s ankle wetly and scrapes his teeth there a little in warning.

“Don’t squirm.” 

He repeats the process on the right foot and ankle and kisses in a hard line up to Rafa’s right knee. Rafa’s still propped up on his elbows, just watching Roger and he meets Rafa’s hooded eyes. As gently as he can he presses his lips first the right then the left knee, Rafa shifts slightly again, but Roger’s pleased this time. He wants Rafa to know this is more than just kisses or whatever. He can’t find the words yet, but this he can do. He’s an athlete, his body is his tool. He wants Rafa to know he _cares._

He nips quickly at the inside of Rafa’s thigh just to hear him gasp. Roger purposefully skips over the rest of his body. He pushes Rafa down flat, hovers over him for a beat, and can’t help but line up their bodies, and their hips push together. Rafa looks too pleased with himself, so Roger bites his neck. He follows the column of Rafa’s throat with his teeth, leaving behind wet open mouthed kisses, but never lingering on a single spot too long. Their hips continue to rock together. From this position, he’s tuned exactly in to all of Rafa’s reactions, each intake of breath, every gasp on the verge of a moan. Barely minutes in and he’s addicted.

“Rafa you’re so fucking beautiful.” He pushes the words into the hollow of Rafa’s throat, along his collar bone, and the meat of his shoulder. He continues his downward trajectory, closes his teeth around Rafa’s nipple and pulls off in a sharp, sucking kiss, and Rafa moans throatily then. So Roger repeats the motion on his other nipple, biting down harder than before, determined to hear him. Rafa’s fist tightens in Roger’s hair and he moans Roger’s name in a way he’ll never be able to forget, grinding up in tight circles against Roger’s midriff. And, fuck, he can’t deny it anymore, he doesn’t think he can stop any time soon.

Rafa pushes him back gently, so Roger goes with it and sits back on his heels, taking the opportunity to take in great lungfuls of air. Rafa’s a blushed bronze sight laid back on the white pillows. Lips red and caught in his teeth, cheeks pink and the colour seeping down to his chest. His cock is red and hard against his stomach. He’s watching Roger watch him again. 

“Roger, we can stop now.” He says, voice breathless. It’s not a command, or a question. He’s giving Roger an out. “We are not hooking up, remember.”

As much as he’s enjoyed Rafa’s immediate adoption of that particular phrase, he’s definitely starting to wish he’d never said it. 

Roger should say, “Yes, you’re right.”, and maybe “Let’s forget about this.” and “Good night.” 

He says, “I don’t want to stop. But if you want me to, I can go.” 

“I don’t want you to go.” Rafa’s voice is quiet.

Okay. Okay. He wants him so badly. He says, “Turn over.”

He can see breath rise and fall in Rafa’s chest.

“I’m just gonna kiss you, baby.” He says. And—

And. Oh. Oh, _fuck_. Rafa turns over to lie on his front and Roger is suddenly _so_ turned on, he feels his mouth fucking dry up.

So, yeah, Roger’s explored this particular avenue a fair couple times in fantasy. Again, the real life version is much, _much_ better. 

He runs his palms from the tops of Rafa’s thighs, over his ass, into the dip of his back, and Rafa arches up into the touch. Roger can’t help it, he has to — _has to —_ straddle Rafa’s thighs and hold his cock through his underwear. He rubs himself along the crease of Rafa’s ass, honestly feeling ridiculous at the sight of the wet material clinging to the tip of his cock, but he can’t stop.

“Would you let me?” He’s proud of how put together he sounds with Rafa matching his grinding rhythm already. “Rafa, would you let me fuck you?” 

“ _Si.”_ His answer is a hiss into his pillow. “Roger, Roger, kiss me, please.”

Roger slides down the bed, he kisses him.

Firstly, just at the small of Rafa’s back. Where his spine curves inward so invitingly, and Roger presses his face there to breathe, and mouths at him wetly. Then he’s kissing over the curve of his ass, and he’s not gentle with his teeth anymore, he doesn’t _care_ about leaving marks. Rafa splays his legs wide, urging Roger on with just his body and the sounds of his breathing getting heavier. Roger spreads Rafa’s ass with both hands and leans in, kisses hard and hot over his hole. He knows enough crude Spanish to get a gist of Rafa’s cursing, and so he kisses him there, over and over, less lips and more his open mouth and tongue. Rafa’s tilting his ass right up into Roger’s face, and he’s unashamedly dragging his cock against the sheets, and Roger does the same, so, _so_ desperate. Roger presses his lips hard around the ring of muscle and fucks Rafa’s ass with his tongue, until Rafa’s breaths turn into little _ah ah ahs_ that get sharper and more on edge with each thrust.

Roger eventually forces himself to pull back and Rafa groans in protest. He needs to see Rafa lose it, get him off with just his lips. 

“Rafa, baby, turn over again. I want to see. I need to see you.”

Rafa flips over again, and Roger immediately puts his mouth back to work.

“Roger, please. Don’t stop.” Rafa’s voice is shredded, but Roger slows the pace right back down. 

He kisses the base of Rafa’s cock and it jerks against his stomach. He traces the length of it with more sharp, sucking kisses, and Rafa swears impressively in Spanish. He gets his mouth on Rafa’s balls and Rafa fists his own cock.

He says, “Yeah, baby, touch yourself.”

Rafa strokes himself roughly, so Roger presses his lips gently to the side of the head of Rafa’s cock. He kisses the tip equally lightly, and Rafa’s hand meets his lips.

“Roger. Roger. Please.” 

Roger sucks the head of Rafa’s cock as hard as he can, and pulls off with an obscene wet kiss, and Rafa comes hard, hips rising up off the bed, all over his own stomach and hand. He lies flat on his back, eyes screwed shut while he strokes himself through it. Roger watches, his fingers gripping Rafa’s thigh tight and he can feel the muscles jump there.Rafa cranes his neck to look at him and smile lazily, unbearably smug, so Roger drags his lips along his over sensitive cock, making him twitch.

Roger’s just trying to work out how to get himself off quickly and Rafa says, “Shit, man. Take off your pants, Rog.”

He drags them off, rather inelegantly for the sake of speed, and wastes no time taking his cock in his own hand. He’s sitting between between Rafa’s spread legs, and Rafa beckons him closer, so Roger sort of knee walks and straddles his waist. Rafa shakes his head and grabs Roger by the backs of his thighs and pulls him up further so he’s almost sitting on Rafa’s chest. And then Rafa’s face is _right there._ His cock jumps in his hand and he closes his eyes and squeezes himself hard to stop from coming this very instant.

“Touch yourself, Roger. Yeah, yeah.” Rafa’s voice urges, and he does, he pulls at his cock rough and fast, can’t help it. Roger looks down again, and God, he’s going to come if Rafa so much as licks his lips. His mouth is swollen and red, and he could, he could —

“I would let you, Roger.” Rafa continues. “Fuck my mouth. Is very easy in this position, no?” He opens his mouth, fucking, _fucking_ _obscene, testing,_ ** _testing_** — “Si, yes. I can take it, I think—“ 

Roger comes all over his face.

 

-

 

They’re in the bathroom. Rafa stands in a fresh pair of underwear, wiping his body down with a damp flannel. He’s already washed his face. 

Roger lingers awkwardly, back in his own underwear, watching Rafa in the mirror. 

He says, “You are very good at kissing,” with perfect seriousness and they both dissolve into laughter. Just like that, everything is fine.

Roger moulds himself to Rafa’s back and hooks his chin over his shoulder.

“Thank you. I was worried you would be more experienced than me.” He wishes he knew how to hide jealousy in his voice.

Rafa turns to look at him then and meet his eyes and there’s something different now. An understanding, Roger thinks. 

“I don’t sleep with people I don’t like, Roger.” He says carefully. “I don’t use people. I am not using you now.” 

“I don’t think you use people.” Roger says quietly. 

Rafa takes both of Rafa’s hands. 

“No, no, no. I mean, I want you to know this means something. For me.” Rafa frowns, struggling to find the right words. Roger knows the feeling. 

He squeezes Rafa’s hands to let him know he doesn’t have to say any more. Maybe they can figure it out later, together. They’re finally on the same page. They smile at each other, kind of embarrassing and goofy.

“Hey, can I use some toothpaste?” Roger asks, stepping round and reaching for it on the counter, planning on a quick finger brush and mouthwash fix. 

“Sure. Use my toothbrush if you want.”

“Are you sure?”

Rafa gives him a look that definitely means “the guy who just had his mouth on my whole body is precious about toothbrushes? Really?”, and Roger falls into laughter again.

He uses the toothbrush.

 

-

 

Back in the bedroom, Rafa strips off the top sheet and throws it off the bed, rearranges the pillows, and gets into bed. Roger watches from the bathroom doorway, unsure. 

Rafa says, “Stay.”

Roger thinks he should say, “I should get back to my own room.” 

He wants to say, “I think I love you.”

He gets into the bed and Rafa grabs his hand, presses a sleepy kiss to his knuckles.

“Goodnight.” Roger whispers.

He stays.

 

**Author's Note:**

> big thank you to my cheerleader, literal background dimidal is for you


End file.
